


Red Card

by indraaas



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: CoLu Week 2019, F/M, Soccer AU, actually technically soccer player/lawyer au but, basically sports romance with plenty of bickering, kulti and the hating game inspired me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indraaas/pseuds/indraaas
Summary: Section 1 of the Employment Contract: at no point in time may legal counsel attempt to injure, kill, or otherwise maim Erik Adriá Vivas ("the Client"). This includes, but is not limited to, attempting to concuss him with the goalposts, strangling him with his shoelaces, and waterboarding him in the locker room.





	1. Prologue

There are three universal truths about black letter law classes: everybody hates them, they give you PTSD the likes of which the LSAT only dreams of inducing, and from the second Lucy Heartfilia sat down, bright eyed and bushy tailed, in first year torts, she _knew_ she'd found her niche.

Of course, astute lawyer that she is, Lucy's also painfully aware that for every established truth, there is always some kind of clause in the ( _criminally tiny, 0.5 point font_ ) fine print that'll come and fuck her over if she doesn't put on her thick glasses and crack out the magnifying glass Mest got her as a joke a couple years back.  In this case, the clause goes something like this: _you may find you like black letter law classes, and you may find you’re_ good _at them; if the above two are true, the job you wind up getting after articling is gonna eat you alive._

This is _not_ one of those clauses contracts prepared her for.

* * *

“Mest, darling,” Lucy begins evenly, “Please tell me your firm is still hiring.”

_“You hated crim pro in law school, schnookums,”_ Mest reminds her.  She can hear the steady hum of keyboards and hushed conversation on his end; actual, functional, _legal_ work going on.  Bastard.

“I might need you to be my counsel in a few weeks then.”

_“You're dealing with contracts and shit for soccer players, Lucy, it can't be_ that _bad.”_

She hazards another glance down at the _3” binder_ on her lap ( _no, contracts and crim pro did_ not _prepare her for this, where are her manila envelopes?_ ) and flips past the pages upon pages of legal jargon back to the picture clipped to the front.  He's handsome, all right, with an arrogant tilt to his mouth that's sent all his prior legal reps running for the hills.  

_“Who is it you're the rep for, again? Don't tell me it's Black Steel.”_

“Nope.  Erik-”

_“Cobra? They stuck_ you _with_ Cobra _?! You're_ fucked _! Fucked! We used to use him for case studies in entertainment law, remember?”_

Oh.

_That's_ why his name looked so familiar when she saw his file.

_This_ is the same rat bastard whose hypothetical on the 60% final tanked her grade so hard she had to appeal it to the dean?

_Not_ this _time, Cobra.  Not this fuckin’ time._

( _Section 1 of the Employment Contract: at no point in time may legal counsel attempt to injure, kill, or otherwise maim Erik Adriá Vivas (“the Client”).  This includes, but is not limited to, attempting to concuss him with the goalposts, strangling him with his shoelaces, and waterboarding him in the locker room.)_

 


	2. Thread

It’s pouring buckets.  Raining cats and dogs. Angels are unloading a millenia’s worth of holy piss onto the unprepared masses.  God is crying.

Don’t they normally _cancel_ games when it’s raining this hard? Whatever happened to inclement weather? This is a lawsuit in the making, and if it’s not, she’ll draw up the first draft tonight after downing half a bottle of Advil in the shower in a desperate attempt to regain feeling in her legs.  Lucy thinks back to her first year of law school when the dean had sternly informed them that, from that day onward, sweatpants and all similar attire was to be burned and replaced with silk and leather, and curses herself for taking his words so literally. What she wouldn’t do for a nice, comfy pair of sweats right now…

“My hair is gonna get _ruined_!” Serena wails as he boards the bus, closing his umbrella with a dramatic snap and shaking it out.  “My poor stylist! He’ll have a fit!”

Acnologia smacks the umbrella out of his hand and pushes him in so he can board, muttering, “You’re the fucking central midfielder, not the cheerleader, idiot, you’re getting messy either way.”

“But _Acno,_  darling, it’s the _principle_ of the matter! What kind of impression do I make on the - ow! Hey, stop _poking_ me, you asshole-!”

Natsu tips his umbrella over just enough that it covers half her head, smiling sympathetically.  “Forgot to check the weather, huh?”

“Yeah,” Lucy lies.  It’s less she forgot to check the weather and more her washer and dryer decided to hold their own funerals over the weekend, leaving her to organize her clothes into ‘passes the sniff test’, ‘passes the sniff test with a solid spray of perfume’, and ‘does not pass the sniff test’ piles.  The black silk skirt and white blouse were the first things she’d grabbed that morning on her haste to bus it to the stadium on time to leave for their second match of the season.

Rain.

White blouse.

 _Fuck_.

Lucy crosses her arms over her chest, shivering just a little bit so it looks like she’s cold (which isn’t far from the truth), _not_ like she’s trying to hide her see-through shirt.  What colour bra did she wear? When Natsu boards the bus, she takes a quick peek down and groans.  Pink. Of course. Of _fucking_ course.  She can practically hear the dean’s disapproval and she graduated two years ago.  This is what all the forums mean when they talk about law school induced PTSD.

“Why’s legal coming with us?” Sting, defensive midfield legend and local bane of her existence, yells.  His attacking counterpart and general balm to her soul, Rogue, smacks him across the head ( _she saw nothing no sir no assault no concussion All Is Well_ ) and shoots her an apologetic half-smile.  

“Cobra,” Laxus offers up as if that explains everything - which, to be fair, it does.  Lucy’s entire _job_ is micromanaging Cobra so Mard doesn’t have another week-long bout of cluster headaches.  

“Speaking of which, where is he?” Gajeel looks around, studded brows furrowed.  Lucy’s always wondered how somebody with so many piercings can play a game as contact-heavy as soccer without ripping one or ten out.  Then again, he and Laxus are the centerbacks so it’s not like they get as much action as their missing striker.

“I’ll go find him,” Lucy volunteers eagerly as a genuine shiver rips through her back.   _Fuck_ it’s freezing.  Why is it so cold? It’s fucking April, where is her God given _sunlight_?

“Good luck,” Laxus says, handing her his umbrella as he steps onto the bus.  “Check the locker room. I think I heard him summoning the devil but I didn’t see any sacrificial virgins.”

“Guess I’m safe, then.” Lucy winks and starts jogging towards the lockers just as the boys starting hooting and hollering and Natsu gets punched for suggesting she and Laxus do the do right there and then.

_Idiots._

* * *

“Mr Vivas?” Lucy calls, entering the locker room with her eyes screwed shut.  It’s a force of habit at this point, instilled after one too many accidental eyefuls of things that no amount of alcohol can ever wipe away.  After groping around for a few seconds, her hand finds the wall and she follows it until her knee hits a bench, and she quickly settles down, scooching over to where she _knows_ a heating vent is.  A gust of hot air hits her back and she sighs, content.   _Finally_.  It’ll take a solid while for her to regain feeling there but she’ll take what she can get.

“Mr Vivas, the bus is ready to leave.  Are you in here?”

“I told you fuckers to go on without me, I was gonna drive myself over later,” he yells, sounding surprisingly close.  Isn’t his locker a couple rows down from here? What the shit?

“Oh, I guess I must’ve missed the message.  Are you alright? You’re normally never this late.” She can be civil.  It’s just like crimpro all over again, except Mest isn’t here to pinch her black and blue in an attempt to keep her from strangling her fake clients.  Civil. Civil. Deep breaths. He’s her client. She can do this. She’s Lucy goddamn Heartfilia, top of her class, legend on the stand -

“If I wanted someone to nag me this much I’d marry one of my fans.  Fuck off.”

Is convicted murderer an option on LinkedIn?

“Excuse me for caring, you ignorant walrus,” Lucy snaps.  

“Wow, you have enough brain cells to care? I’m touched.  Don’t use them all on me, though, I think you need some of those for your job.”

“I hope you know that every time you _don’t_ receive a concussion on the field, I go home and cry.”

“You must cry a lot, then.”

“Enough to make up for the fact that the only emotions you’re capable of are anger and apathy.”

“And lust.  Always lust.” Cobra walks over, entirely too shirtless, and it is _way_ too fucking hot in here, holy shit.  She shifts down the bench away from the heater, tugging on her damp shirt discreetly.  It’s sticking uncomfortably to her skin, trapping her in her own sweat and the muggy rain water.  The team must’ve all showered before they packed up; the humidity is starting to make her head spin a little.  

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

He holds up his black jersey by the sleeve, pinching it so it flops at an odd angle.  It’s ripped at the armpit, all the way down to about where the middle of his ribs would be if he were wearing it.  

“Serena and Acnologia normally have sewing supplies in their lockers,” Cobra explains.  At her raised brow, he rolls his eyes and adds, “Serena for obvious reasons, Acnologia because he dislikes hospitals.”

“Wendy lets him?” The team’s sole medic may be tiny but by _god_ does she invoke fear of a higher being when she’s serious.  According to legend, anyway. Lucy’s only met her a handful of times off the field and is of the firm opinion that the tiny angel can do no wrong, but Mest continues to forward her videos of Wendy reining hell on the field that she refuses to watch.  Out of respect, of course. And maybe fear but she’ll snort Pixy Stix before she ever admits that out loud.

“They’re cousins, he’s the only one allowed to ignore her,” Cobra says, throwing the shirt over his shoulder and sighing irritably.  “They left needles, no thread. Who the _fuck_ …”

In a move she’ll spend four hours, a bottle of shitty $8 wine, and half a tub of Halo Top analyzing with Mest, Lucy tugs at her skirt until she finds a loose thread, carefully pulling it.  If she yanks too hard it’ll snap and there won’t be enough to fix the massive rip, so her movements need to be slow and deliberate. Cobra’s eyes bore holes into her already heated skin, sending a shiver down her back she can’t entirely blame on a sudden bout of chills.  

People do stupid, extra, over-the-top things for their clients all the time.  Mest once had to teach himself to drive stick-shift so he could rent a Lambo and take a client drifting in the snow.  This is nothing.

When she’s satisfied with the length of thread she’s pulled loose, she rips it off and holds her hand out for the needle and shirt.  “I’m quick at stitches, pass.”

Cobra throws the shirt on her lap and sits a respectable half foot away, angling his _very lean, very tan, very cut_ upper body in her direction.  She hates him, yes, but she’d be lying to herself and the constitution if she said she didn’t think he was _hot_ .  He’s not bulky like Laxus and Gajeel, and he’s not as lean as Sting, Rogue, and Serena; rather, he lies somewhere in between the two, with long legs, the tightest ass to grace planet Earth, an upper body most people would shed tears over and _fucking hell she is_ not _having dirty thoughts about the demon client, nonononopenosir._

She hazards a peek his way when she’s done half the armpit.  He’s watching her, face perfectly blank, fingers drumming on his knee impatiently.  Dictionary definition bored. Except his eyes. They’re bright with something close to...curiousity, almost.  It’s kind of nice, makes him look like he’s an actual functional human and everything, with feelings and all that shit.  

Then he opens his mouth and she has to return to stabbing the cloth and pretending it’s his eyes instead.

“I can see your bra, you know.  Pink. Figures.”

“Die,” Lucy intones with a tight tug of the string.  “Seriously. Die.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to live to see you go on beta blockers because of me.”

“I’d hit you, but it literally says I’m not allowed to in my contract.”

“Tragic, really,” Cobra says, a smirk on his lips, “You must wanna touch me _real bad_ if you read _that_ far into your employment contract.”

“I’m a lawyer, dumbass, of course I read my own contracts.” Lucy sniffs, holding the shirt up for inspection and running her fingers over the inseam.  It’s virtually undetectable to the naked eye, and she can only feel the bumps if she looks for them. Her satisfaction is short lived when he takes it back and wrinkles his nose.  “What?”

“Was that _nylon_?”

“Silk, idiot.  I bought this entire getup a couple weeks ago from this boutique downtown.” She bites back the _thank you would be nice_ before it slips out of her mouth.  It’s one of those things she learned early on in law school - pick the hill you wanna die on and all that shit.  Does it sting that he’s not even the slightest bit grateful for her help? Yes. Will she make it that obvious to him? Fuck no.  Lucy allows a familiar wave of controlled indifference to blanket her, tight to her skin as her shirt, and sinks in deep. _Never give the client an in.  Never, never, never. Sticks and stones, Lucy, sticks and stones._

“Ah, so it _won’t_ totally fuck up my shirt in the middle of the game,” he says as he slips it on.   _Goodbye, you beautiful, sculpted pecs, you…_

“Of course not.  This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know.”

At this, Cobra raises his brows and waves in a ‘go on’ motion.  

“Mest and I were prepping for our first moot-”

“Moot?”

“It’s like practice court, with a fake case except you’re being assessed by actual judges,” Lucy explains.  Cobra leans against the lockers and crosses his arms over his chest, nodding like he’s actually _invested_ in what she’s saying.  It’s a far cry from the same guy she’s seen leave conversations halfway through without so much as a goodbye if he deems them a waste of time.  

“Right, anyway, we’re outside just going over the case one more time and he remembers this stupid TED talk we’d watched a couple weeks ago about body language, right? And how if you superman pose-”

“Your testosterone levels rise, yeah, Wendy forwarded the team that one.” Cobra nods again.

“Yeah, that one.  So, we’re standing out there, superman posing like a bunch of idiots, when his blazer rips in the same place as yours.  So, we’ve got a half hour and my mini-kit is entirely out of black thread, so I manage to get enough off my skirt to Macgyver everything together just in time for us to present,” Lucy laughs.  Her hands had been shaking so much during prep that she could barely get the stitches to line up, but in retrospect, the half hour of concentrated threadwork had forced her to calm down so much she barely broke a sweat in court.  She glances down at her hands now, smiling to herself. They’ve not shaken since, not during the bar, not when she lost her first case, not even when she had her ultimate final blowout with her dad last year. Unshakeable.

“Why are you staring at your hands, you weirdo? Do you need to do the ‘head, shoulders, knees and toes’ dance now, too?”

“I was just imagining how nice my manicure would look as I choked you out is all.”

(They’re shaking now.  God _fucking_ dammit, she’s gonna kill him.)

* * *

 

 _"Did you see that final goal?_ ” Mest screams over the phone.  “ _I haven’t seen a scissor kick like that since Akatsuki retired! What the fuck!_ ”

“Is that was a scissor kick is? I thought that was a bicycle kick.”

_“You’re going to fucking hell, Heartfilia, I hope you know this.”_

“You work for Lahar, tell me what it’s like so I can prepare.”

Lucy allows Mest’s complaints, a laundry list she’s as familiar with as her own, filter through her ears as she watches FC Fiore celebrate on the field.  Serena and Sting are twerking, much to Rogue’s absolute horror, and Natsu’s doing victory laps. Wendy’s yelling at Acnologia, pressing an ice pack to his shoulder as Laxus and Gajeel watch, more than just a little amused, and Cobra…

Cobra’s ripping off his shirt and waving the thing in the air like it’s a rave.  The crowd goes _wild_ , Mest starts fanboying in her ear, and Lucy’s plotting _murder_ as their eyes meet across the field.

He knows what he’s doing, the absolute fucking _hobgoblin_ , and he’s _enjoying_ it.  He winks and takes a deep bow.  

A nightmare.  An absolute PR nightmare.  What the fuck is a calm weekend? She hasn’t had one in a decade.

“Mest.”

_“I would kill to be you right now.”_

“If you don’t keep me from murdering my client, you might just get my job.”

* * *

A box arrives on her doorstep the next day, messily taped shut and with no return address.  When she rips it open, there’s a coupon to an upscale boutique downtown resting on top of a jersey, the number _6_ in giant white just below VIVAS, printed in chunky letters.  Her fingers find the inseam and she snorts. She knows her own stitching when she feels it.  

_I’d sign it but you see me every day._

_Enjoy the beta blockers._

_E._

He actually threw in a bottle of Metoprolol.

Fucker.


	3. Legal

**From:** Zero S < [ szero@fcseis.org ](mailto:szero@fcseis.org)>

 **To:** Mard Geer Tartarus < [ mgeer@fcfiore.org ](mailto:mgeer@fcfiore.org)>

 **CC:** Lucy Heartfilia < [ heartfilial@fcfiore.org ](mailto:heartfilial@fcfiore.org)>

 **Subject** : RE: Erik’s Contract

 **Attached:** vivas_contract.pdf <49 MB>

_Kindly find attached the document highlighting violated sections of the contract._

**From: Mard Geer**

**Time: 3:21 AM**

_Counsellor, I do not say this lightly - what in the genuine fuck._

**To: Mard Geer**

**Time: 3:34 AM**

_I know a good defense attorney if you can get rid of the body._

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re claiming he was illegally bought out,” Lucy snaps.

“Way to make me feel like a piece of meat,” Cobra laments, sinking lower into his seat and tapping away at his phone as if this is a boring lunch date and _not_ the absolute end of the world for everyone involved in this shitfest.  There’s a second where Lucy’s tempted to whip her heels at his head and mail his unconscious body to FC Seis, but her boss is _right there_ and so is _his_ boss, and she did _not_ graduate summa cum laude for this idiot to kill her professional streak.

His phone makes a weird noise and he grins.   _Is he playing fucking candy crush_?

Mard, bless the man, pinches her hip.

“So they want him back?” Makarov guesses, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.  “I always knew Brain was a cheating bastard, but this is going too far.”

 

“Brain? The email said _Zero_.”

“I’m officially Kobe beef,” Cobra declares, “$300 per pound.  I think that’s more than I’m actually insured for, hold on…”

“Zero is his legal name, Brain is what he goes by professionally,” Mard says tiredly, adding in a mutter, “If one could declare that professional…”

“So what’s our plan of action here?” Makarov asks, eyeing the two of them.  He’s a short man, jovial and a bit too over-the-top for her liking most days, but the look on his face right now has the base of her spine going cold.  This is it. Her first hurdle as an actual lawyer. Mest isn’t here to cover her weak spots, and no professor is going to give her tips for improvement.  This isn’t a mock trial and she can’t afford to lose.

Mard pinches her hip again.  She leans against the wall next to him, her knees suddenly too shaky to hold her upright without buckling.   _Fuck_.  This is it, then.  Lucy flicks her eyes over; her boss is as cold and collected as ever, not a hair out of place even after being woken up at 3 AM to deal with this shit.   _God_ she wishes, now more than ever, that they could switch places.  What she won’t do for calm. Just enough that her head stops spinning and she can think rationally.

“I’m way more expensive than Kobe! $31250 per pound!” Cobra crows.

“Are you serious?” Lucy hisses.

“Dead.  Last I checked I’m insured for five mil, and my weight...you can google, so I guess it’s not a secret, but-”

Mard pinches her hip again, this time probably to keep her from killing him.  Again.

 

* * *

 

 

The only good thing to come out of this entire debacle is that Makarov, with Mard’s approval, has her on house-arrest so she can tackle this head on, dressed down, and eating junk food like the good lord intended.

Except she has no ‘dress down’ clothes, and the closest thing she’s got to junk food in her pantry is a pack of sugar-free gummy worms, so this house-arrest is already off to a great start.

Mest sends her yet another comforting meme she remembers him tagging her in back in their first year.  Right around the time of their first moot, actually.

She’s fuckin’ got this.  

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 10:51 AM**

_This baby lawyer’s off to slam dunk this case_

**From: Mestikins**

**Time: 10:51 AM**

_YOU WORK WITH SOCCER PLAYERS AT LEAST KEEP YOUR ANALOGIES STRAIGHT_

 

* * *

 

 

She don’t got this.  

She really, really, really _don’t got this_.

According to the most trustworthy Google link she can find, there are approximately 63 pages per megabyte.  Some quick math later and Lucy almost winds up dialing 911 on her calculator because her entire upper body goes numb and all she’s able to do is let out a pitiful slur of squeaks when she realizes the contract is just north of _three thousand goddamn pages_.  She needs to stack two Febreze cans on top of each other so she has a scale to send Mest, whose only reply is a gif of some lady crossing herself and knocking back a shot.

Unhelpful bastard.

Lucy runs her shaky hands up and down her face, grabbing a fistful of hair at the crown of her skull in an attempt to stall the migraine she feels building behind her eyes.  She can’t stress out now. They’re all counting on her, every last one of them. Even Cobra, whose bouncing leg during the meeting belied his anxiety and sent a shot of something cold and uncomfortable through her veins.  She’s not used to him being _nervous_.  It’s...unnatural.  

For Cobra, then.  And her peace of mind.  

And her job, but that’s an aside.

Ultimately, Brain/Zero/Whatever his name is’s main issue is that Cobra was - supposedly - illegally traded from FC Seis to FC Fiore before his contract with the team ran up, and there are - supposedly - no records to confirm whether or not his contract was purchased before the trade, adding a whole layer of illegal to the already overpainted wall.  Their last accountant was a dud, and Mard promises sweet, filthy murder when she texts him so.

There are a couple other complaints: he played a casual game with the members of FC Fiore while wearing their spare jersey when his contract clearly outlined he was forbidden from playing soccer for any team other than FC Seis; he stole some sponsorships when he switched teams; contracts were never signed fully officiating his release.  A bunch of hot bullshit but there are _no_ timelines and _no_ paper trails, leaving her with a blank whiteboard and way too many dry pens and highlighters.

The doorbell rings.

“Mest, if it’s you with takeout then the door’s open, you know this!”

“You leave your door open? Fucking hell, what a weirdo.”

Her brain blue-screen-of-death’s.

Cobra enters her living room like he owns the place and tiptoes over piles and piles of paper, making a beeline for her sofa, flopping on it belly first and sighing like a content cat.  “This is comfy. La-Z-Boy?”

“What are you _doing_.”

“Keeping my lawyer company while she gets me out of this mess,” Cobra replies, waving a bag of gummy worms innocently.  “I brought snacks. Why are you wearing a _suit_ in your own home? Do you have cable?  Jesus, is that my contract? It’s _huge_ , that fucker really hates trees, huh?”

“Dress for the job you want, and no, I don’t have cable, yes, that’s your contract, no, I’m not hungry.” Lie, truth, truth, _filthy_ lie and her stomach starts drumming out the beat to the Lion King opening music just to make a point.  Cobra eyes her, a brow raised.

Lucy huffs and heads to the bedroom to change.

“I’ll get us UberEats if you give me your credit card number!”

“ _Die_!”

 

* * *

 

 

“I need a timeline check, not an ass check,” Lucy snaps irritably.

“I’m just appreciating how nice my number looks on your back.  You sure this is your only dress down shirt?”

“ _When did FC Fiore approach you for a trade_?”

Cobra shrugs and shovels another spoonful of fried rice into his mouth.  “I dunno, probably December two years ago? Something like that.”

Lucy ruffles through the papers and checks the dates on both.  “December 19th? In the off-season?”

“Yup,” he pops the p.  “I was chilling in Desierto when Makarov called with the offer.”

“Desierto? Jesus, if Seis was paying you that well why switch over to Fiore?” she mutters as she uncaps a new pen and scribbles the new information down.  Forget getting new hardwood done, if she laminates these timeline sheets and notes she’s set for life.

“‘Cause Brain’s a dick,” Cobra says in a tone that shuts down _that_ entire line of inquiry before she can even begin to open it.  Lucy frowns, but allows it. It’s none of her business until it is - and it will be if she needs it to strengthen her case, but for now he can keep those secrets buried under the fortune cookie he’s munching.

“‘Flattery will go far tonight’,” he reads his fortune off the little slip and waggles his brows at her.  “Hey, legal, gotta say, as fine as that shirt looks on you right now-”

“Did you know there’s a small zone in northern Alvarez where nobody has any jurisdiction so murder is technically legal?” Lucy chirps, “And did you know Serena has a lovely mansion in Alvarez he’s invited me to before? Perhaps we can make it a team event.”

Cobra grabs her fortune cookie and rips it open, helping himself to the cookie as he reads her fortune.  “‘You will die alone and poorly dressed’.”

“Fuck you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you considered, like, pinning them up?”

“Pinning _what_ up.”

“The timeline so it actually looks like a timeline and not a jumble of papers you need to sort out every ten minutes.”

Lucy shoots him a glare.  He’s right. She’ll never admit it, but he’s right.

Cobra smirks.  “Need a hand?”

“Die.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I hate this,” she moans, scrunching up the paper in her hand and whipping it in the air.  It lands on her neck after peaking at an impressive two feet.

“I don’t see what that jackass is going after me for,” Cobra says, “Seriously, this whole thing is just some shitty revenge fantasy gone wrong.”

Lucy rolls on her stomach and pokes his hand with a pen.  “Explain.”

“Brain hates my guts because I hate _his_ guts.  You think I’m bad with legal here? You should’ve seen me with Seis.  We didn’t have a single permanent lawyer on hand because they hated dealing with me.”

“Why?” Lucy blurts out, narrowly avoiding slapping herself.  He was on a _roll_ , dammit, this could have been _good_.  He could’ve told her some real juicy shit had she not been stupid enough to ask a question he would’ve probably answered in his tale anyway.

“The more I badgered legal, the more attention I brought to myself in the media, the more Brain and the whole team was scrutinized,” Cobra replies, “Which meant that _hopefully_ , some _goddamn shit for brains_ would start looking into things.  Start tearing apart the financials, for example, find out how Brain was blackmailing major companies to become sponsors.  Look into where those financials go, trace them through the shell companies he was using to launder the cash for himself.” A muscle in his jaw ticked.  “Then more serious stuff. I wasn’t the only one to leave Seis.”

“Sorano, the social media rep, right?”

“Yup.  One of my oldest friends.  She was rep for Seis, too. Then Brain-”

“If the next word out of your mouth is rape-”

“I didn’t let it get any further than a couple unsolicited nudes.” His mouth twists up into a sneer.  “His plan was, if she declined him, he’d find a way to leak the nudes and blame it on her.”

“When was this?” Dumb, dumb, horrendously _dumb_ question - she already knows.

“December tenth,” he replies, and he doesn’t have to say it was two years ago.  She knows. She _knows_ , just as sure as she knows she’s going to win this case and then launch the combined forces of Mest and Lahar Brain’s way.  She’ll stay up every goddamn night reviewing criminal law and tax law and insurance law and _everything_ in between.  Not just because all she can hear right now is her own blood pounding in her ears and her eyes _ache_ so very, very much - headache or angry tears, she’ll never know - and the unbridled rage coiling in every muscle fibre demands Brain’s head on a pike, but because _nobody_ has delivered justice for Cobra and Sorano.  Nobody.

And she’s goddamn ashamed of herself for never asking why he’s such a hellion with legal.

“I’m going to win this,” Lucy says evenly, meeting his eyes with cold fury in hers, “And then...then I’m going to make sure he _pays_.”

 

* * *

 

 

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 1:21 AM**

_Who was the best at tax law back in our year?_

**From: Mestikins**

**Time: 1:21 AM**

_Juvia Lockser? She’s working for Porla’s huge firm.  Why._

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 1:22 AM**

_Are you and Lahar down to form a dream team with Juvia and myself the likes of which haven’t been seen since the OJ trial._

**Missed Call: Mestikins [1:23 AM]**

**Missed Call: Mestikins [1:23 AM]**

**Missed Call: Mestikins [1:24 AM]**

**From: Mestikins**

**Time: 1:25 AM**

_YOU CAN’T FUCKING SAY SHIT LIKE THAT AND NOT PICK UP MY PHONE CALLS LUCY_

 

* * *

 

 

It goes a little like this: it’s four in the morning, and somewhere between Cobra snoring away on her couch and her phone vibrating - Mest somehow contacted Mard who’s now ready to blow off her head - that the solution hits her.

“I _got_ it!” Lucy shrieks so loudly it wakes _herself_ up along with Cobra, who hits the floor, cursing.

“What the fuck,” he mumbles sleepily, rubbing his eyes.  He’s oddly cute when his hair is sticking out at odd angles and there’s drool drying on his chin.

_Yeah, no, not gonna look into that, nope, nope, nada...not cute._

“I figured out how to get you out of this,” Lucy says triumphantly, holding up her magnum opus - a sheet of paper with messy scribbles she’s not entirely sure are English.  “See?”

“No, actually,” Cobra yawns, getting up and wincing as his knees crack.  Are they allowed to do that? Like, that loudly? Jesus Christ. He plods towards the kitchen, arching his back so that snaps, too, much to her horror.  How is he in _one fucking piece_?

“You’re out of coffee, I’m getting UberEats.”

“I want a McFlurry!”

“Are you four, legal?”

“If I was four, I wouldn’t be legal, dumbass.”

 

* * *

 

 

Watching the smug smirk slowly drop off his face like he’s having a stroke is one of the most beautiful things Lucy’s ever witnessed in her short career.  She only hopes Cobra, seated to her left, is enjoying this as much as she is.

“I think, Brain, that this should satisfy your legal department entirely,” Mard finishes smoothly, sliding over a sleek black USB that Lucy matches with one of her own, red this time.  

“What’s _this_ ,” Brain spits out, staring at the red USB like it’s a bloody finger.  Lucy smiles, a touch too cold to be considered civil.

“The offices of Nayar and Lates will be joined by the offices of Porla in a joint effort to look into your finances and other affairs,” Lucy says.

“The effort of which I will be matching as a sports law consultant,” Mard continues, nodding at the red USB.  “This is just a primary draft of complaints for your legal department. Only a couple hundred megabytes worth, I think.”

Brain shoots up out of his chair so forcefully it topples backwards and slams his palms on the table, glaring at Cobra venomously.  “You think you’ve won this, haven’t you, you little-” he cuts himself off and breathes deeply. “You’ve not seen shit yet.”

Lucy stands up and crosses her arms over her chest, meeting his baleful gaze with an equally hateful fire in her own eyes.  “Give me a reason, please.”

“Hiding behind a woman’s _skirt_? Not the first time I’ve seen you stoop _this_ low.  I always wondered why you took that silver-haired bitch with you.”

Lucy throws an arm out and bends it so her elbow digs into Cobra’s rock-hard stomach.  She doubts he feels it the way she’s sure she will tomorrow when she starts bruising, but it keeps him from strangling his former owner - as much as she’d rather the old fart die in the first place.

“That would be the other affair we’ve opted to look into in the case,” Lucy says, half an eye on Cobra, who’s gone stock still.  A part of her is afraid she’s overstepped her bounds, taken the odd olive-branch he’d offered her and burned it for her own light, but that same part of her reasons that it’s about fucking time someone did something.  If it costs her her career, so be it.

“Excuse me?” Brain asks softly.

“I think you know,” Mard takes over, waving at her dismissively.  “Counselor, kindly take your client to practice. I’ve a few...details I need to iron out with Zero here.”

Lucy’s only seen that dark shadow cross Mard’s face _once_ and it was on a televised court case where he single-handedly eviscerated a coach accused of sexual assault of his female players on the stand.  The verdict was an ungodly amount of years behind bars, and that had been the night Lucy sent in an application to work for him. That kind of passion is impossible to fake, especially in a man so devoid of it.

Brain’s in for some _pain_ if he survives this.

Lucy shoves Cobra out the door as professionally as she can and sighs deeply as she tapes a hastily made ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign to the front.  It’s for the peoples’ sake, really. Mard’s demon face is not for the faint of heart.

“You did it,” Cobra says a few minutes later, once they’ve loaded up in her car.  “You actually did it.”

“Told you I’d win it.”

“Not that.  The...you did _that_.  Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“I asked legal at Seis a few times.  They never did shit. Why did you?”

Lucy shrugs.  “Guess I’m still young and yet to be jaded.  Besides - a wrong had to be righted. Juvia’s probably drooling over the financials right now, and Mest is - eep!”

Cobra’s hugs are a perfect metaphor for his personality: way too strong, overwhelming, and only tolerable in short bursts, which is why when he pulls away a whole three seconds later, Lucy’s struggling to figure out how to make her lungs work in tandem again.  

_What the fresh from the farm fucking hell._

  
“Thank you,” Cobra says, “And if you tell anyone I did that, I’ll _accidentally_ scissor kick your head.”


	4. Foamy

“You want do a car wash.”

“Yup.”

“Shirtless.”

“Yup.”

“To raise funds for…”

“Concussion awareness.”

“Counselor,” Mard says, “Kindly inform Miss Marvel that she needs to reassess the team for brain injuries.”

Lucy, wisely, nods and returns to pretending she’s organizing a pile of paperwork.  It’s the same pile of paperwork she’s been pretending to organize since her tenure with FC Fiore started, but she’s seen Mard do the exact same thing and he’s been here longer than she has so she figures she’s safe.  For now, anyway.

Serena pouts and throws himself into the seat next to Acnologia dramatically.  The goalie looks as though he’d genuinely rather be plucking out his leg hair individually with a tweezer, and the suffering only intensifies when Serena grabs his arm and shudders.

“It’s just that after Acno’s last concussion, I’ve been so worried, you know?”

“I’m fine,” Acnologia insists, “Really.”

“And I just wanna make sure that the appropriate attention is given to concussion research,” Serena says loudly, “You know, because Laxus had a concussion a while back, too, and so did Gajeel, and it’s such a hot topic in sports politics these days that I think FC Fiore doing a fundraiser for it is a brilliant idea!”

“Shirtless,” Mard deadpans.

“Yep!”

Acnologia shoots Lucy a look that  _ screams  _ ‘help’.

Lucy gives a helpless shrug and continues to shuffle papers like she’s on TV.

* * *

_ SHIRTLESS CAR WASH _

_ ALL PROCEEDS GO TO CONCUSSION RESEARCH _

_ YEET _

“Perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing Serena’s concerns,” Mard says, way, way too calmly for her liking.  “Although I suppose with his salary he can afford the appropriate care required to recover from his imminent TBI.”

“I’ll go deal with this?” Lucy offers.  She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t to get as far away as possible from the bubbling volcano next to her.  His smile is going to have her waking up at three in the morning in a cold sweat, she just  _ knows  _ it.

“That would be very wise of you.”

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 10:45 AM**

_ Please tell me Lahar is hiring, Mard is a psychopath. _

**From: Mestikins**

**Time: 10:46 AM**

_ I had to explain to a client that mixing his coke into the snow to hide it from officers and then declaring it mother nature’s gift is not a legal defense, Lucy.  You don’t want my job. Criminal defense is bad. _

* * *

 

_ You are a lawyer, this is unethical.  You are a lawyer, this is unethical. You are a lawyer, this is unethica- ooooh sweet mother of god, how are abs like that possible.  What the fuck. _

Lucy follows the team members on social media.  She’s seen how thirsty the fans can get when they see the  _ outline  _ of abs in well-timed photos, one going so far as to tweeting Rogue that she’d ‘systematically replace all the bones in my feet with glass and drop anvils on them’ for the chance to see him soaking wet and half naked.

Idly, she hopes that fan knows a good orthopedic surgeon.  And that orthopedic surgeon knows a good neurologist, because she’s gone into apoplexy in the corner.

They’re not half-naked (yet) but their white shirts  _ really  _ don’t hide  _ shit  _ from the paparazzi.  This is like the most deranged wet dream come to life, and she’s got to put an end to it.  The fans are gonna kill her, and they’re in  _ cars _ .  Vehicular homicide.  What a way to go.  _ Though, as far as last images go, this isn’t awful… _

“Guys,” Lucy says after clearing her throat, “Really?”

“Hey, Legal’s here!” Sting shouts.

“Which one?” Serena yells back.

“Hot blonde!”

“Lucy! Quelle surprise, mi amor!”

“Mard’s plotting your death.  I was sent to shut this down, but…” Lucy sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as Serena rips off his shirt and flexes, and screaming in the background intensifies.  “I see that’s...gonna be impossible.”

Serena shrugs and throws an arm over Acnologia’s shoulder.  “What can I say? It’s easier to apologize than ask for permission, ya feel?”

“You understand why this is legally a bad idea, right? Because we’ve got to get approval before publicly endorsing anything and, like, we need to go through the appropriate channels to get the partnership approval with whatever organization you’re supporting…”

“I got you covered! Acno!”

“Fuck you.”

“Gladly, my love! Ow! Stop  _ pinching  _ me, you  _ dick _ -!”

“Our legal loophole is that we never declared what organization the money would be going to.  So, no permission needed,” Cobra explains as he sidles up next to her, surprisingly dry considering Sting and Natsu are trying to modify the water pressure on the hose so it douses everyone in a ten foot radius.  

“That’s not even remotely close to how that works.”

“It’s good enough for GoFundMe’s.”

Lucy comes to three realizations in that moment: she’s not getting paid enough for this; she will never be paid enough for this; and Cobra is her version of the crackhead client.

“Relax, legal.  It could be worse.  We could be doing crack.”

The look she shoots him is nothing sort of scandalized.  Can he read minds now? Is he a mind reader? Does he know about those weird intrusive thoughts that feature him shirtless? Because it’s one of those things she’d hoped would stay between herself and the stars, even under threat of death.

“I’m going to sit there-” she points at an upturned bucket, “and...supervise.”

Cobra grins and leans in to whisper in her ear, breath cool against her overheated skin, “If you wanted to see me naked, legal, you could’ve asked earlier.  Your apartment, maybe.”

“Die.”

* * *

For the first hour, all is well.  Relatively, of course. Mard calls her three times, leaves her three texts she doesn’t open, and one email with only a subject line reading ‘we will discuss this soon’, which doesn’t bode well for her at all.  Mest sends her news articles and various social media snippets of the guys shirtless and demands exclusive selfies - best friend privileges and all. He gets one ankle picture, because irony. Or something like that.

Wendy pops by only long enough to make sure nobody is dying of heart exhaustion, shakes her head in disapproval at Acnologia, and hands Lucy a water bottle before heading off for her shift at the hospital just as Sorano arrives to take some photos for the team’s social media accounts.  

All in all, could be worse.  

What is it people say? ‘If it can get worse, it will’? Murphy’s law or something like that.

Natsu, somehow, procures a massive jug of industrial strength soap.

That should be her first indication that shit’s about to hit the fan.  Actually, it should’ve been the hose modification. This event. Her joining the team.  Her deciding to get into law. Her birth. All of it. All of it was an indication.

“Natsu,” Lucy calls, hoping the panic isn’t as evident as she feels it is.  “What are you doing?”

“We ran out of soap, so I’m stocking up!” Natsu replies, unscrewing the cap and pouring a liberal amount into the massive bucket before him.  “I think this is good. Cobra?”

“Too little!” Cobra barks, dumping more in.  Lucy watches the bucket fill with thick soap, dread rising in her chest with the same sluggish viscosity.  This is a disaster. An epic, ‘SportsNet won’t shut up about this for a week’ disaster, and the bonehead she works for is making it worse with every additional millimeter of soap added.  Cobra grabs the hose and jacks up the water pressure, aiming it directly into the bucket so it froths rabidly. Suds explode from the bucket, coating everyone within spitting distance with a thick foam that smells way too much like a hospital sanitation room for comfort.  

Lucy shrieks as chunks of cold soap slap against her skin and goosebumps burst across her flesh at the sudden jump in temperature.   _ FUCK holyfuckfuckfuck COLD shit FUCK! _

“Shit, sorry Lucy!” Natsu grabs the hose from Cobra and aims it at her.  “Here, just-”

“Natsu,  _ no _ -!”

Lucy contorts at a back-breaking angle once the cold water hits her dead on, and she can’t even bring herself to screech because it’s  _ so fucking cold _ and it’s going up her throat and out her nose like it’s her first day of swimming lessons and Mest dunked her head underwater for shits and giggles.  Scrambling away, her ankle hits the bucket and she trips, landing ass-first on even  _ more  _ goddamn soapy water that seems hellbent on keeping her stuck to the ground because no matter how many times she tries to get up, she can’t get a goddamn grip on the gravel to stand.

“White shirts, seriously?” Cobra groans from above her, “Do you own  _ anything  _ not white?”

“Fuck you,” she wheezes, flopping onto her back to flip him off.  If a camera catches it, then a camera catches it. Fuck it. Fuck this job.  She agreed to scary paper contracts, not watersports.

_ Okay, no, bad Lucy, this is  _ not  _ watersports, thank god… _

Cobra huffs, irritated, and she’s indignant all over again.  How’s  _ he  _ the one getting pissy when  _ she’s  _ the one soaking wet and  _ he’s  _ still dry as a goddamn bone? He grabs her by the upper arm, his grip surprisingly gentle despite how quickly he jerks her up, and helps her to her feet, pressing in close.  

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lucy hisses.

“Keeping the paps from getting a shot of your bra from the front, dumbass,” Cobra mutters back, glancing down quickly and raising a brow.  “What is  _ with  _ you and pink?”

Lucy crosses her arms over her chest and scowls, hoping her blush can be played off as a trick of the light.  Black and white is the industry standard but she  _ refuses  _ to give the industry control over her intimates.  And they were on sale, but who can hold that against her when bra’s cost $60 on a good day? 

Cobra rips off his shirt and Lucy’s face to face with a pair of pecs that’ll likely star in tonight’s fever dream because  _ holy shit  _ they’re unreal.  She almost wants to poke them, just to see if her finger breaks.  There’s nothing soft about this man and it’s kinda weird when she contrasts that reality with the one where he’s shoving his shirt over her head and helping her arms through the sleeves.

“See, I have brains.  I don’t wear white shirts.” The striker waves her off as he joins his shirtless team and calls back, “Call us even for the locker room, legal!”

* * *

**1.2 million likes, 53455 comments**

**fcfiore:** @cobrastrike strips off for charity! Thank you to everyone for coming out to support such a great cause.

**godserena:** did I not say this was a great idea?

**dantheman:** anybody got the blonde’s @? can’t believe he covered her up just when it was getting good smdh

**cobrastrike:** @dantheman didn’t we block him like two years ago what the fuck @sorangel

**heartfilias:** TAKE THIS DOWN SORANO WE DIDN’T APPROVE THESE IMAGES MARD’S GONNA KILL ME


	5. Sweater

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 8:45 AM**

_WHY IS IT SO FUCKING COLD MEST IT’S THE SUMMER_

**To: Mestikins**

**Time: 8:45 AM**

_DOES INCLEMENT WEATHER NOT EXIST FOR SOCCER PLAYERS_

**From: Mestikins**

**Time: 8:45 AM**

_Lahar gave me an office with no A/C Lucy.  I’m in the middle of my fourth heat stroke of the day and it’s not even nine._

* * *

The rainy weather she can excuse: April showers bring May flowers and all that.  The surprise cold front? Not so much. May is _not_ single-digit weather, dammit.  Where is the sunshine? The pollen that’ll have her popping antiallergens from now until winter rolls around? Where is the _justice_ in all this? Lucy scowls, tucking her freezing fingers into her armpits and crossing her legs tightly to conserve what little heat she can.  Whatever legal team is taking on those oil companies better be tighter-knit than OJ’s because if they don’t come out victorious in the battle against climate change, she’s going to take some drastic measures that involve very not-legal means.  

“You look kinda cold,” Gray comments as he pauses next to her.

“You’re _not_?” Lucy gives the team’s stylist a once-over.  Forget sweater, he’s not even got full-sleeves on! The jeans hugging his legs look sort of warm at the very least - warmer than her own thin dress-pants, anyway.  

Gray shrugs.  “I was born up North.  This is kinda comfortable, actually.  You want me to grab you a sweater or something?”

“That’d be-”

“Gray!” Sorano yells from the field, “Get your ass down here! You didn’t tell me you ordered new jackets!”

“Ah, shit.  Sorry, Lucy, I’ll see you around!”

“...great…” Lucy trails off with a sigh, watching them longingly.  The thick, fur jacket Sorano’s got on looks _so warm_ , and she’d _kill_ to get those invitingly cozy boots, too.  

“Do you have beef with the weatherman?” Cobra asks, dropping down beside her.  “Seriously, your phone has the temperature on the homescreen. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t need to be judged by you, Mr Vivas.  Shouldn’t you be in the locker room waiting for the game to start?”

“Mr Vivas?” His face is wholly unimpressed.  If this were anyone else, she might even wager he’s kinda _annoyed_ at her for throwing up the proverbial wall between them, but he can’t be _that_ dumb that he doesn’t get _why_.  As it turns out, having a world-famous striker wrestle you into his shirt is one of the _many_ things that unite fangirls and fanboys alike in an internet-pitchfork fest that culminates in (temporarily, she’d been assured) shutting down your social media accounts until some new scandal pops up.  Truth be told, the death threats don’t scare her nearly as much as the crazy dedicated fans demanding she list the kicks Cobra used to win the World Cup five years ago to prove her worth or whatever it is they’re aiming for.  

Mirajane, their PR rep, had kindly held her hand through the whole process and gently suggested she do her best to drive a professional wedge between the two.  Just for a bit. Easier said than done when Cobra knows where she lives and has her phone number and a collection of vine compilations he enjoys sending her at three in the morning and he keeps ‘forgetting’ his stuff in her office and he’s been getting into a lot of new legal bitchfits these days, which forces them to spend more time together.  Lucy groans and rubs her slightly warmed hands over her face. She should’ve gone into criminal defense. The pay makes it worth it.

“Fine, Cobra-”

“Erik,” he stresses.

“Erik.  Again. The game starts soon.  Why are you still here?”

“I’d be affronted if I cared that much.” Deja vu hits her right in the chest as he takes off his sweater and holds it up between them with a raised brow, violet eyes twinkling mirthfully.  How does one even _get_ purple eyes? She’s never seen it before in her life but she can’t imagine him with any other eye colour.  It’s so...him.

“So? You know the drill or do I need to force you into this, too? It’d suck if I had to shut down my social media as well.”

“You know?” Lucy blurts.

“Mira told Mard to tell me.  Honestly, legal, you work for _me_ , forget FC Fiore.  You should’ve turned off your DM’s a long time ago,” Erik admonishes, though the sudden tension in his jaw belies his lackadaisical posture.  “The comments weren’t too bad, were they?”

_I’ve seen this in like, every shitty romcom ever.  You know the drill. You got this._

“Why is it that I get grilled on your average goals per game, but you all get stuff like ‘I wanna turn the sweat from your jockstrap into a cologne to snort on my off days’?” Lucy teases.  There’s no point in bringing up the death threats. They both know they’re there and coming in at a steady pace and there’s nothing either can do about it. Erik takes the opening, though she has a feeling he’ll be bringing it up later.  Probably at three am when he decides to throw another vine her way.

“I broke my wrist early on in my career and had a girl offer to send me one of her wrist bones for, and I quote, ‘better healing’,” he says with a snort.  

There are many words she can string together to respond to that and none of them can ever quite adequately capture the horror and twisted hilarity she’s feeling right now.  It’s too cold for her to feel her face, but she imagines it’s contorted rather comically because Erik laughs and holds the sweater above her head, saying, “Yeah, I didn’t take her up on that.  Now, before my legal nightmare turns into a popsicle. C’mon, you’re making me late.”

Lucy allows him to slip the sweater over her head and help her arms through the holes so she can twist her messy hair up into a bun.  His eyes fall to her back and he grins a little.  

“Number six doesn’t look so bad on you, legal.  Keep it.” Erik ruffles her hair and pulls out the hairtie on his way back to the locker room, waving with his other arm.  Lucy’s a little _too_ in shock to do anything other than squawk indignantly.

What the hell is it with him and getting her to wear his jersey number? What 80’s movie set has she stumbled into? What the fuck?

* * *

**From: Cobra**

**Time: 2:59 AM**

_kick_fails_comp.mp4_

**From: Cobra**

**Time: 3:00 AM**

_I average 22 goals per game, but who’s counting._


End file.
